The Bewitching Hour

by Diana Douglas

  “At one time, I thought he and I would make a good match, but you managed to spoil that.” Her smile tightened into a thin line. “I have no plans to marry him now. He said things I found offensive. He made me angry.” Fury twisted her expression. “No one gets away with that.”

  Priscilla stared at her, trying to understand. This was all because Stratton had made her angry? The woman was truly mad. She slowly shook her head. “I can’t believe that you’re capable of murdering two people simply because you’re angry.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Miss Hawthorn.” The cold rage in Lady Williams’ eyes made Priscilla’s chest ache with fear. “I have been more than capable for some time.”

  Stratton emerged from his solicitor’s office, content with what he had accomplished. In the case of his untimely death—not that he expected that would happen—Priscilla would be generously provided for. He hadn’t gone more than a block when one of the lads who worked at Ruck’s nearly ran him down.

  “Milord, I…” The boy was winded and could barely get his words out.

  Surprised, Stratton placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders and said, “Whoa. Take a minute to catch your breath. What seems to be the matter?”

  “Man named ‘arris sent me. Said to meet ‘em one block north of Rucks.”

  A faint chill shot down the viscount’s back. “Did he say why?”

  The lad shook his head. “Only said it was important.” He sucked in another breath. “I’m to tell Mr. Danfield, too.”

  Stratton pulled several coins from his pocket without looking to see what they were and placed them in the boy’s hand. “He’s at Boodles waiting for me. Go through the kitchen in the back and they’ll find him for you. Now hurry!” He gave the boy an encouraging shove and then tore down the street toward Ruck’s.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Philip gently dropped down from the window and into a puddle of water that had accumulated on Lady Williams' cellar floor. Damn! He took a few steps, groaning as he felt the water seep inside his boots. Cursing the inadequacy of his boot maker along with the wet cellar he stepped out of the water. At least, they didn’t squeak. That would have been a major hindrance to his plans. Coming here in broad daylight was a foolish risk to take, but that last bottle of ’89 was calling to him and if he wanted it, he’d best do it now as his ship was sailing for Barbados in four days time. The worst that could happen was that she would throw him out and as the lady was rarely up by now, that wasn’t likely. With a little luck he could be in and out before anyone realized he was there.

  After drying his boots with a handkerchief, he moved up the cellar stairs, cringing when the door creaked as he pushed it open. He listened. The house was quiet. Fortunately, she only had three servants and they had already proven themselves not particularly observant. Or perhaps, they just didn’t care who broke into their mistresses’ home.

  The drawing room was on the second floor. Once satisfied that no one was in the vicinity, he hurried past the kitchen, a butler’s pantry and tiptoed up the staircase. He had almost reached the top step when he heard a female voice. He stopped and for a long moment didn’t even draw a breath. The muffled sound of a woman’s voice came again and his brows slowly lifted with surprise. Judging by the soft lilt, the voice belonged to Miss Hawthorn.

  A sensible man would leave, but he didn’t consider himself to be a particularly sensible man. Miss Hawthorn’s presence could only mean that Melissa had hatched some plan or another and he was curious to see what it was. He climbed the remaining steps and waited, hoping a few words might come through, but the women’s tones were still too low to decipher.

  Now he had a dilemma. Did he leave empty-handed? Or did he stay, find out what Melissa’s scheme was, and as she wasn’t likely to make a scene in front of Miss Hawthorn, help himself to the '89 and drink it under her nose? He grinned. The thought of that lovely warmth sliding down his throat while Melissa battled to maintain some degree of civility was just too tempting. It would be ever so much more entertaining than simply leaving.

  He crossed the corridor, threw open the doors, entered the drawing room and came to an abrupt stop. The sight of Melissa holding a pistol on Miss Hawthorn was enough to make him question his temporary state of sobriety.

  An angry flush stained Melissa’s cheeks. “Damn you, Philip! How did you get in here? I had the lock changed.”

  It took a moment to find his voice. “Your cellar is still easy enough to access, my dear lady, and I had hoped to sample that last bottle of wine you were keeping for a special occasion.” He smiled. “A final parting gift to your beloved cousin, you might say.”

  She glared venomously at him. “This is beyond the pale.”

  “As is, pointing a pistol at a young lady,” he pointed out. “Manners aside, what in the blazes are you doing?” He glanced over at Miss Hawthorn. Her eyes were wary, her complexion pale, but she appeared to be holding herself together surprisingly well. He then noticed Lord Mallory slumped over in his chair. “Christ, what’s wrong with him?”

  “She put something in his brandy,” Priscilla said. “It’s made him ill.”

  His gaze returned to Melissa. “You’ve been quite busy, my lady.”

  She stared at him as if considering what to do next. “You are such a nuisance, Philip, though after giving it a second thought, I can’t say that I’m all that put out with you. I suppose if someone had to come in at this moment, it’s just as well it was you. I’ll need you to retie the man’s cravat for me. I haven’t the vaguest idea how to go about it.”

  He tried to find a modicum of logic in what she said. And failed. “You can’t expect my help without letting me in on the game. Why do you want me to tie his cravat? And why are you pointing a gun at Miss Hawthorn? You aren’t actually planning to shoot her, are you? One doesn’t normally shoot their guests.”

  “Of course, I am. I plan to shoot both of them. I’ll kill her first as Lord Mallory isn’t likely to make any trouble for me in his current state.”

  “Good Lord, Melissa... I’m not certain I approve.”

  Hands folded tightly, heart pounding, Priscilla watched the man’s face. His expression told her nothing. He seemed strangely relaxed, almost jovial. Did she dare hope that he would help her?

  Lady Williams’ voice interrupted her thoughts. “Why would I care whether you approve?”

  He moved closer to Lord Mallory. “He looks completely done in. What did you put in the brandy?”

  When it appeared that Lady Williams didn’t plan on answering, Priscilla said, “Bella donna.”

  He clicked his tongue. “A waste of perfectly good brandy.” He turned his gaze to Priscilla. “Though I know you by name, we haven’t been formally introduced. If Lady Williams would be so kind as to do the honors.”

  Lady Williams released a long suffering sigh. “Forgive me. Under the circumstances, I hadn’t thought it necessary. Sir Montville, meet Miss Hawthorn. Miss Hawthorn, this is Sir Montville, your blackmailer.”

  He grinned at Lady Williams and said, "Don't give me all the credit, my dear. You played your part in it as well."

  An empty cold feeling settled in the pit of Priscilla’s stomach. Any hope that he might help her vanished. “Why did you do it?”

  An expression of what seemed to be genuine regret appeared on his face. “Sometimes desperation overshadows common decency. In order to prevent my early demise, I needed funds.” His gaze lowered. “I must ask your forgiveness. I’ve never blackmailed a true lady before and it has rested uneasily on my conscience.”

  Lady Williams' complexion took on a purplish hue. “You idiot! You could have ruined everything!”

  “It appears you’ve done a rip-roaring job of that without my help. Now the question is, what will you do next, my lady?” He strolled across the room to the liquor cabinet and opened it. “Ah, there it is.” With a thin-lipped, but triumphant smile, he held up a bottle of burgundy. “My life is now complete."

  Priscilla k
ept her eyes focused on him as he wiped the dust from the bottle. Confusion warred with fear. This had progressed well beyond bizarre. What was he planning?

  “Forgive me if I don’t share,” he said, as he extracted the cork, “but I ruined my boots when I broke in through the cellar and feel I’m entitled to a little recompense. I’m also damned stingy when it comes to good liquor.” He pulled a long quaff from the bottle before asking Lady Williams, “Are you willing to hang for this? No one has died as of yet. You could still change your mind. It isn’t too late. Personally, I can’t see where it would be worth the risk.”

  She expelled a breath of exasperation. “Give me credit for a little sense. I’ll simply tell the constable that Lord Mallory shot her and then shot himself in a fit of madness over her rejection of his suit. There’s no one to dispute me.”

  He grinned. “Except me. And as I see only one pistol at the moment, it appears that your choices are limited. You could shoot me and Miss Hawthorn might be able to escape before you reloaded. You could shoot Miss Hawthorn and I would be out the door with an interesting tale that may or may not result in your hanging, but would definitely lead to your social ruin.” The grin disappeared. “Or better yet, you could just hand me the gun.”

  A glimmer of hope surged in Priscilla's chest. Could he talk her out of this?

  A long pause passed before Lady Williams spoke. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  He took another drink and shrugged. “I believe I’ve developed a sudden liking for chivalry. Hard to fathom, isn’t it?”

  Her body tense with anticipation, Priscilla turned her eyes on Lady Williams. If anything, she gripped the gun more tightly than before. Her hand remained steady. Priscilla refused to give up hope. It was all she had left.

  Lady Williams laughed and said, “I know too much about you to believe that.”

  “I suppose we know too much about each other, for either one of us to rest easily, but of all the reprehensible things I’ve done in my lifetime, I’ve never committed murder.” He pulled at his chin. “I’ve just had a sudden thought. Tell me, my lady, did you poison your husband?”

  “Shut up, Philip.”

  He grinned. “I thought so.”

  “He was just like Percy, always harping at me…”

  St. Montville clicked his tongue. “Poor dear. And your father? Hunting accidents happen, but they always give one pause.”

  Priscilla inhaled sharply, remembering the words, 'I have been truly capable for some time...' If she had already murdered two people, there was nothing to stop her now.

  Lady Williams' eyes burned with a strange light. It wasn't anger, but madness. And hatred. “My father sold me to a revolting old man as if I were nothing more than a little trinket to be played with when it suited him. I couldn't look at him without feeling sick to my stomach. I deserved better. They both deserved to die and you well know it.”

  "Perhaps, they did. I suppose I've always known, or at least suspected, but as I was unable to give a damn about either your husband or your father, I gave it very little consideration. This time, my dear, is rather different." He tipped back the bottle and proceeded to guzzle down most of its contents. After wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he said, “Do pardon, my lack of manners, Miss Hawthorn, but I’m unaccustomed to chivalry and find that I need a little extra courage to do what I must.” He threw the bottle to the floor and lunged for Lady Williams’ pistol.

  Christ! The apprehension Stratton felt earlier was nothing compared to the cold knot of dread that now clenched in his belly. Harris was waiting for him just outside Lady Williams' townhouse. The Scotsman immediately launched into what he knew with uncustomary brevity. “A lad arrived at Miss Hawthorn’s with a message of some sort. From there, they took a hack. I was able t’ follow them to here. Didn’t have her maid with her, my lord. Seemed verra peculiar.”

  Very peculiar? Imprudent, foolish, reckless would have better described Priscilla’s behavior. What had she been thinking? Stratton thrust his fingers through hair damp with perspiration. “How long has she been in there?”

  “A good half-hour, I’d say."

  Berating himself for not telling Priscilla of his suspicions about Lady Williams, Stratton was about to knock, when the sound of a shot came from within the house. He and Harris had the front door kicked open in seconds. The entryway was deserted, the house deadly quiet. Where was she? “Priscilla,” he shouted. The next few seconds felt like hours. He had never felt such fear.

  Her voice reached him. “Above stairs.”

  He bolted up the steps and into the drawing room where Priscilla was kneeling on the floor beside a young man. His left sleeve was covered in blood and a small pool of it seeped on the floor between them. He rushed to her and lifted her to her feet. Looking for signs of injury, he saw that she was pale and drawn but didn't appear injured. “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m fine.”

  He tried to take her in her arms, but she struggled out of his grasp and dropped to her knees. Her words came in a breathless rush as she slid a white, linen neck cloth beneath the man’s arm and began to fashion a tourniquet. “He needs a doctor. He tried to help me and Lady Williams shot him. She drugged Lord Mallory, too. She ran when she heard you come in.”

  Only then, did he realize that Lord Mallory was also in the room, slumped over in his chair. His mind swimming with questions, he pushed them aside, sent Harris to find someone to send for a doctor, and hoping that she hadn’t had time to leave the house, began his search for Lady Williams.

  By the time Stratton and Harris had reached the drawing room, Lady Williams was flying down the servants’ stairs as quickly as she could manage. There had been no time to reevaluate her strategy, but putting the most distance between herself and Lord Stratton seemed the obvious first step. She traveled down a short hallway and through the kitchen before reaching the backdoor used by the servants. Heart racing, she turned the knob on the door and pushed. It didn’t budge. She tried again and met with the same result. For the first time in years, she was truly frightened. They could send her to the gallows, if they caught her. She didn’t care what she had to do; she had to get away. The sound of footsteps overhead prodded her into action. She hurled herself against the door and was free.

  Priscilla gave the linen strip a firm tug as she tied it around Sir Montville’s arm. He had lost a great deal of blood and the pallor of his skin troubled her, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped. She pushed a lock of hair back from his forehead and his eyes fluttered open. He appeared anxious, and given his earlier behavior, more vulnerable than she could have imagined.

  As loathsome as Sir Montville’s actions had been, she felt no bitterness. Perhaps he deserved to go to prison for his crime, but he had taken the bullet meant for her and she would have no part in sending him there. She owed him that much.

  Eyes wavering, he tried to lift his head.

  “Don’t move,” she said. “You’ve lost a fair amount of blood and we don’t want it to start up again. I must thank you for what you did.” A faint smile touched her lips. “You were very chivalrous. I want you to know that most of what was said earlier I have forgotten. I only know that you attempted to take the pistol away from Lady Williams and were shot for your effort.”

  He tried to shake his head.

  “Don’t argue,” she said. “You’re much too weak and I’m very determined about this. Had you not come here and intervened, I would likely be dead by now. Saving one’s life is no small thing.”

  The thin pale lips moved, forming a silent thank you. He exhaled a long, unsteady breath and closed his eyes.

  Stratton heard a bang as the back door slammed against the side of the house. He spun around and headed for the staircase. Managing the steps three at a time, he reached the bottom in seconds, but took several wrong turns before finding the back door. He cleared the back steps with a single leap and dashed out the open gate where he found himself in a narrow alley, barely wide enoug
h to accommodate a cart and horse. Off to his right, Lady Williams’ slim form grew smaller as she ran down the alley. She had managed to gain a considerable lead. He tore after her. Once she reached the street, she could easily lose herself among the crush of traffic. Cursing, he quickened his pace.

  Her lungs burned as the ground rushed beneath her. She heard the thud of his boots against the packed dirt as he drew closer; the pounding of her heart in her head. Then the voice in her mind took over, obliterating all sound other than its own. He will not catch me. Eyes on the ground, she lifted her skirts higher and ran.

  Stratton slowed as a knot of traffic appeared ahead and the next few seconds passed in a blur. As if oblivious to her surroundings, Lady Williams rushed into the street without regard for the horse and rider directly in her path. Frightened, the horse reared, nearly unseating the man on its back. Stratton flinched as the forelegs came down on Lady Williams, knocking her to the ground. It reared again. A woman screamed. Traffic came to a standstill. The rider managed to bring the horse under control, but not before the horse had trampled Lady Williams against the cobblestone.

  A crowd gathered around her still form. Stratton moved back further into the shadowed recesses of the alley, thankful that no one seemed to have noticed him. Watching a woman trampled to death by a horse should be shocking, yet other than pity for the man whose horse had done the trampling and a slight sensation of relief, he was surprised by his own lack of emotion. There would be plenty of witnesses to give their report when the constable arrived. He could do nothing here.

  His first concern was to remove Priscilla and Lord Mallory from Lady Williams’ house before someone made an identification and came to her door. This would be a big enough scandal without dragging his wife’s name through it all. As he hurried back down the alley, he devised a story he thought would sufficiently explain the circumstances. By the time he reached the house, Rand and Harris were waiting for him in the garden. Knowing it would be near impossible to accomplish what needed to be done without their help; he broke into a grim smile.